


Heart Still Open

by notionally



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Break Up, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Minho/Zico, Sort Of, everyone is bad at feelings, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notionally/pseuds/notionally
Summary: The number one rule of being friends with benefits? Don't catch feelings.In which Minho crosses all the lines.





	Heart Still Open

 

 

_So have you got the guts?_  
_Been wondering if your heart's still open  
_ _And if so I wanna know what time it shuts_

— Arctic Monkeys, ‘Do I Wanna Know’

 

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve toed the line before. It’s not as if they’re not familiar with what it’s like to flirt with the grey area between what’s platonic and what’s romantic. For years, there have been hands trailing up thighs and soft kisses on cheeks and even bodies pressed together in dark bedrooms. You could say that if something was going to happen, it would have happened by now.

But it’s easier to push boundaries than to cross them. And sometimes what it takes to bring people’s guards down is something as simple as time.

Other things that ended up helping: A broken boiler. The bone-chilling cold of a winter’s night. And the easy familiarity of four boys who might as well be family.

Jinwoo’s the one who suggests they just go upstairs instead of getting their managers to book them a hotel for the night. It’s alarming how quickly the temperature in their dorm had plunged once the creaky old boiler had given one last mournful groan and then proceeded to go on strike. Minho’s fingers are already getting stiff from the cold. He nods eagerly from beneath his oversized hoodie, and then he and Jinwoo are haphazardly shoving a night’s worth of necessities into duffel bags and padding upstairs to the other dorm.

“You guys look like refugees,” Hoon comments as he opens the door. Jinwoo gives him a scathing look and shuffles past without saying a word.

“It’s really cold downstairs,” Minho says. He drops his bag on the floor, rubbing his hands together. This dorm is already so much warmer, and he exhales in relief.

Yoon raises an eyebrow at the thick padded jacket Jinwoo’s wearing. “Aren’t you being a bit dramatic?”

Jinwoo glares at him from where he’s curled up on the sofa. “Do you want to swap dorms with us for the night instead?”

“No, sir,” replies Yoon, with exaggerated reverence. Then he looks around at the assembled crowd (three’s a crowd, right?), throws his arms wide, and declares, “So — who wants to sleep with me?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jinwoo complains, at the same time that Hoon shouts, “I want to sleep with Minho!”

Minho chokes out a laugh as Hoon launches himself halfway across the room, arms coming to wrap around Minho in a hug that squeezes all the air out of him. Hoon grins and nuzzles his face into the side of Minho’s neck. It’s ticklish, and it makes Minho yelp and attempt to squirm away, though to no avail.

“I guess I’m stuck with you,” Jinwoo says, clambering to his feet and shuffling down the corridor towards Yoon’s room. Yoon follows, slinging his arm around his beloved ‘Jinu hyung’ and whispering something in Jinwoo’s ear that makes Jinwoo laugh and shove him away. Minho hasn’t thought about this for a while, but he really misses the days when all four of them still lived together. Not that they’re particularly far from each other now, but it’s different, being separate.

“We get to share a bed again,” Hoon says, tugging Minho the other way along the corridor. “When’s the last time we had a sleepover?”

“Sleepover?” Minho repeats. He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “We’re not children.”

Hoon scoffs in indignation. “Speak for yourself,” he replies. “I will always be a child.” Then, as if to prove his point, he leaps onto the bed on all fours, before wriggling around to peer up at Minho like a puppy.

Despite himself, Minho laughs. He gives Hoon a shove, which sends him flying backwards onto the bed, because Hoon is dramatic like that. Ignoring Hoon’s grumbled complaints, Minho starts stripping off some of the many layers of clothes he’s wearing.

“Ooh, are we having _that kind_ of sleepover?” asks Hoon suggestively, propping himself up on his elbows and waggling his eyebrows at Minho. This is what Hoon is like, has always been like — flirtatious to the point of ridiculousness. He’s especially bad with Minho, because Minho gets the most flustered, which means it’s the most fun.

_“Hyung,”_ Minho whines, chucking his hoodie at Hoon’s head. Hoon ducks, lightning fast, and the hoodie flies across the bed and lands on the floor.

“Seriously, though,” Hoon says — Minho has no doubt that whatever he says next is not going to be serious in the slightest — “what do you want to do now? Play games? Watch a movie?”

Minho scrunches up his face. He nudges Hoon to get him to move over on the bed, and crawls beneath the covers. “Or go to sleep?”

“Sleep?” Hoon sounds appalled. “Who _sleeps_ during a _sleepover?”_

“Can you even hear yourself right now?”

Apparently not, because Hoon just flops on top of Minho, the blankets still between them, and presses his face into Minho’s cheek, “Can we at least talk?”

Minho twists his head away from Hoon, pulling an exaggerated face of disgust. “Yeah, okay, fine — can you go turn the lights off, though?”

They’ve known each other for years, and still Minho doesn’t know where Hoon gets his boundless energy from, because he leaps off the bed and smashes the light switch off in one smooth motion, before diving back beneath the covers. Minho has his eyes closed, but he can feel Hoon shifting, trying to find a comfortable position. He thinks Hoon settles lying on his side, the two of them facing each other.

“Are you asleep?” Hoon whispers loudly.

Minho has to suppress a smile. “Yes.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Ah, this hyung,” Minho complains. He opens his eyes, and it shouldn’t be a surprise but still it startles him to see just how close Hoon’s face is to his own. There’s barely any light in the room except for what’s filtering in past the gap in the curtains, pale moonlight and the warm glow of the street lights outside their building. But it’s enough to illuminate the planes of Hoon’s face, the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips.

“I’m sorry I’m so wide awake,” Hoon mumbles. Now that the lights are off, something seems to have come over him. He’s less fidgety, more mellow. “I’m just excited.”

Minho reaches out in the darkness, finds Hoon’s hand where it’s resting on the pillow, somewhere between them. He rests his own hand on top of it. “What are you excited about?”

Hoon shrugs, and his silhouette moves. “Sleepover,” he says, and suddenly he sounds incredibly young. “Missed you.”

“You see me every day,” Minho replies. But he knows what Hoon means. He feels the same.

“Still miss you.” Hoon closes his eyes now, shifts so he can press his cheek into their linked hands. He rests his face there, impossibly close to Minho.

In the darkness and the silence, Minho can almost let himself wonder. All the times they've been here before, curled up next to each other, so close and still somehow not close enough. Maybe Minho's just curious. With Hoon, he's always been curious.

"Minho," Hoon whispers, so quietly that Minho might not have heard him if he hadn't been paying such rapt attention. Hoon's voice is heavy with meaning, but it's not meaning that Minho knows how to decipher.

So, instead of saying anything, Minho just leans forward, nudges the tip of his noses against Hoon’s. It’s not something they haven’t done before. But Hoon’s eyes fly open at the contact, and Minho freezes. Something feels differently charged in the air around them.

Then Hoon giggles. “Do that again,” he says.

So Minho does, rubbing his nose against Hoon’s. And Hoon laughs and noses against Minho as well, the two of them giggling like kids, amused by nothing at all.

An eskimo kiss, Minho thinks, abruptly. That’s what that’s called. That’s what they’re doing. Eskimo kissing. His heart clenches in his chest.

“Hyung—” Minho says, uncertainly.

He doesn’t have time to finish the thought — because suddenly Hoon’s pressing into Minho, and they go from eskimo kissing to kissing for real. Their lips crash together. Minho feels the breath knocked out of him but he’s kissing Hoon back before he even realises he’s doing it. Fire floods through him, and it should be alarming, the fact that they're kissing, but it isn't. It feels natural, and normal, like this was always been the destination they had been careening towards.

“Shit, Minho,” Hoon mumbles, seemingly coming to his senses. He pulls away slightly — but Minho’s chasing his lips, tilting forward, his hands tugging at the front of Hoon’s t-shirt.

“No, don’t stop.” Minho nips at Hoon’s lower lip. Tension coils in his groin, and there’s a voice in the back of his consciousness somewhere screaming at him to stop, but how can he, when he’s only just now realising that he’s probably wanted to kiss Hoon for god knows how long.

And so Hoon kisses him again, hands sliding around his waist and dragging him close. Every nerve in Minho’s body feels like it’s on fire. He can almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. It’s impossible to focus on anything — everything feels like _too much,_ all at once. Hoon’s tongue slipping past his lips, hot and wet and hungry. Hoon’s hands beneath his t-shirt, searing like fire against the bare skin of his back. Hoon’s breathy moans, the way he’s grinding his hips against Minho, the sweet, smoky taste of him.

Minho wonders how it’s taken so long for this to happen. How they’ve managed to dance around it for years, flirting and teasing and playing games with one another. And what a waste of all that time that’s been, when they could have been doing this.

Hoon is half lying on top of Minho now. He dips his head down, sucks insistently on Minho’s neck. It makes Minho cry out and arch his back. “Hyung,” he whimpers. “Seunghoon hyung.”

“Minho,” comes Hoon’s muffled reply. His voice comes out sounding strangled, and his fingers on Minho’s hips dig into his flesh. He kisses Minho’s neck again, then stops, then groans. “God, I know — I know. Fuck, Minho.”

Minho’s so overwhelmed he feels like his chest could burst. He drags his fingers down Hoon’s back, rocks his hips upwards. It draws a low growl out from somewhere deep in Hoon’s gut.

“Fuck, Minho, what are we doing?” Hoon sounds almost pained to ask the question.

“Don’t know,” replies Minho immediately, without thinking. His brain has no more capacity for thought. All he wants is more — more of whatever it is they’re doing, more of that fluttering feeling inside his stomach. More of his Seunghoon hyung. “Don’t know, don’t care. Do you care?”

“No,” comes Hoon’s raspy reply. “No, okay. Yeah.” Then he leans in to kiss Minho again, open-mouthed and needy. Minho pushes Hoon’s shirt up his torso, feeling the movement of his muscles beneath his skin.

Hoon sits back up, and straddling Minho. He yanks his shirt over his head and chucks it onto the floor. There’s a flush diffused across his face. It’s the most enchanting thing Minho’s ever seen. It makes him want to press countless kisses into the softness of Hoon’s cheeks.

“We’re doing this?” Hoon asks. “We’re really doing this.” It’s not clear if he’s asking a question, or just — stating a fact to himself. Because of how hard it is to believe. Minho can barely believe it either.

But of one thing he’s sure.

“Yes,” Minho breathes, dragging Hoon back down for a kiss. “Yes, we’re doing this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho wakes up to someone softly calling his name. He cracks an eye open to soft morning light flooding the room. When he turns his head, he sees Hoon. Curled up into his side, lips ghosting over his cheek. The memory of the night before floods through Minho's consciousness, and he goes rigid in panic.

But maybe Hoon realises what's running through his mind, or maybe Hoon just knows what he needs, has always known what he needs. He slides one arm around Minho's waist and presses in closer to him.

"I can hear the others outside," Hoon murmurs. "We should go have breakfast."

Minho nods stiffly. "Yeah," he replies. His voice is slightly croaky. "Okay."

"Last night—" Hoon starts. But then he trails off, like he's not sure what he wants to say. He chuckles nervously to himself. "Last night," he repeats.

Minho shifts in Hoon's arms so that they're facing each other. "Last night was fun," he says, firmly. If he says it with enough certainty he can convince himself not to freak out. "It doesn't have to be weird."

A smile, dazzling and brilliant, breaks out across Hoon's face. Warmth floods through Minho's system. He wants to tip his head forward, and kiss Hoon. But he doesn't.

Instead, they get up and head into the main room, where Yoon and Jinwoo are rummaging about in the cupboards for food. They look up when Minho and Hoon enter.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Jinwoo says. He pushes the carton of eggs across the counter towards Hoon. "Can you make breakfast, please?"

Hoon rolls his eyes but takes the eggs from Jinwoo obligingly. "You're very demanding house guests."

Jinwoo just grins and shrugs. He curls his arms around Minho from behind, hooking his chin onto Minho's shoulder. "Did you sleep well?"

There's no reason to think Jinwoo is asking anything more than an innocent question, but still Minho feels a jolt of panic. "Yeah," he says, a little too quickly. "Yes. Nothing out of the ordinary. What? Why? You?"

Yoon gives Minho a weird look. Across the kitchen, Hoon snorts with barely suppressed laughter. Heat rushes to the surface of Minho's skin. Yoon looks like he's about to say something — presumably, to ask why Minho's acting all suspicious — when Jinwoo, thankfully, cuts him off.

"Yoon kicked me last night," he says. "In the shins."

Attention diverted from Minho, Yoon makes a strangled noise of protest. "For the last time, it was an accident! I was asleep!"

Jinwoo raises an eyebrow at Yoon. "Minho never kicks me in his sleep," he points out. "I'm sharing a bed with Minho tonight."

When Minho shoots him a confused look, Jinwoo goes, "Ah, yes. I forgot to tell you — manager hyung said they got a guy over first thing this morning, but the boiler needs spare parts and it'll take a day or two to order. So we're here for a couple more days."

"You didn't ask us if you can stay for a couple more days," Yoon complains. "Maybe I don't want you here either."

"Doesn't matter, I'm sleeping with Minho tonight," Jinwoo declares. "You and Hoony can share a bed."

"No way." Hoon turns to face them, the frying pan sizzling behind him. "Minho's mine. Also, I don't want to share with Yoon if he kicks."

Yoon pouts. "This is so unfair!" he whines, and then Jinwoo's back to teasing him, Hoon piling on gleefully from the sidelines. This is what Minho loves — his three brothers, his best friends. All of them just hanging out together.

But Minho can't even focus on that right now. All he can hear is Hoon's words, echoing in his ears.

_Minho's mine._

 

 

* * *

 

 

They don't talk about it, but that night, when they crawl into bed together, Hoon brings his face right up close to Minho's, and Minho can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. He already knows what's going to happen. Anticipation thrums through his veins.

"Hi," Hoon says, grinning dopily at him.

That's all it takes. Minho slides his fingers through Hoon's hair, gasps brokenly into Hoon's mouth, all the while trying to calm the voice in his head that's muttering _'what are you doing, what are you doing'_ at him on repeat.

That night is the second time. It's not the last.

The third time is later in the week, after Minho and Jinwoo move back to their own dorm. After practice, Minho hovers around Hoon awkwardly, and asks if he wants to watch a movie in Minho's room together. Hoon looks at Minho, expression inscrutable, for a long moment — during which Minho feels like he's going to disintegrate. Because maybe he's just reading too much into all of this. Because maybe whatever happened between them had been a one-time — two-time — thing.

But then Hoon's beaming at him, eyes folding into crescents, and Minho exhales.

They don't end up watching a movie, after all.

This is how it goes, the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth. They never talk about it, barely even acknowledge it when the sun is up. It's as if, in the daytime, they're living in a parallel universe — one where Minho doesn't know what Hoon looks like when he crests over the edge of desire. Where Hoon doesn't know just how to curl his fingers inside Minho to make him whimper. One where they're still just friends, and brothers, and the lines between them haven't been crossed and re-crossed again and again until they've rubbed out like chalk.

But then the night comes, and Minho's making excuses to go to Hoon's dorm to play video games, or Hoon is coming to his to watch a movie — whatever it is, they inevitably end up in each other's rooms, in each other's beds. They have to be quiet, because Jinwoo and Yoon don't know, and Hoon would rather keep it that way. Minho agrees, he thinks. So Minho lets Hoon press the palm of his hand flat against his mouth to muffle his broken moans of pleasure. And Minho arches into Hoon's touch like it's the only thing that matters. Maybe it is.

But Minho's not good at sneaking around. He can feel himself blush whenever Yoon asks why they have to watch movies in Hoon's room, not out in the living room where the TV is bigger. And he doesn't have any good answer prepared when Jinwoo questions if Hoon is really so lazy that he'd rather sleep in Minho's bed than go the two floors up to his own dorm, his own bed. Hoon is better at this then him, Minho thinks. Better at pretending. Hoon's always been better at pretending, at putting on a persona in front of the cameras and committing to it so fully that sometimes Minho's not even sure how much of it is real and how much of it is for show. Minho's not like that. He's too earnest, too open-hearted, always laid bare for all to see even when he doesn't want to be.

By the time Jinwoo confronts Minho, it's almost a relief for Minho to be able to drop the act. He should have seen it coming, really — Jinwoo and Yoon had been making far too many knowing comments for it to be mere coincidence. Like offering to swap hotel rooms when they're in Japan for promotions, or making it a point to announce when they're going to be out of the dorms for the night, or always making sure Minho and Hoon are paired up during variety shows. But Minho is a fool, and so he doesn't see it coming, when one day Jinwoo's sitting down across the dining table from him, a steaming mug of tea cupped in his hands.

"How long have you and Seunghoon been sleeping together?"

Minho looks up in alarm, choking on the biscuit he's eating. Crumbs fly everywhere. Jinwoo doesn't even bat an eye.

"You know?" Minho gapes at Jinwoo.

Jinwoo smiles serenely at him, and takes a small sip from his mug. "We've had our suspicions for a while now, and you've just confirmed it."

"We?" Minho grimaces. "Yoonie knows too?"

"You guys aren't exactly subtle," Jinwoo points out. "So — how long?"

Minho wrinkles his nose, thinks back to all the times he'd told bare-faced lies about what he and Hoon were up to. "When did our boiler break down?" he asks, vaguely, by way of reply.

Jinwoo's eyebrows shoot up into the curtain of his fringe. "That long? That's ages."

"That's not ages, that's like — four or five months?"

"Ages," Jinwoo repeats. He puts his mug down. Steam swirls out of it in hypnotic spirals. "What is this, then? Are you guys dating?"

"No," says Minho, instinctively. Then he hesitates. Are they? They've never talked about it. Their relationship is a binary — either they're wholly platonic, just two dudes joking around, or they're tumbling into bed together, all lips and teeth and tongues. There's no room for acknowledging what they're doing, or talking about it. Minho screws his face up. "I don't know."

Jinwoo drums his fingers silently against the side of his mug, quietly contemplative for a moment. His large, doe-like eyes pierce into Minho's core. "Are you guys still sleeping with other people?"

It takes Minho a moment to even register the question, he's so taken aback. The thought of sleeping with anyone else hadn't even crossed his mind, not since that first time with Hoon. He realises, the weight of understanding settling down over him, that this means he's only had sex with one person for almost five months. That's never happened for him outside of a serious relationship before.

Minho's silence is apparently all the answer Jinwoo needs. "I'm guessing that's a no for you," he says, smiling lightly. "Not even Zico?"

All of them know that Minho and Zico used to sleep together regularly. It was casual, of course. Sort of like what Minho and Hoon were doing now, except — not really. Because Minho had still been picking up random people in clubs and he's pretty sure Zico was doing the same. Minho had even hooked up with Pyo once, when they were all drunk. It wasn't a big deal.

But now — Minho hasn't even thought about Zico in that way for such a long time. His mind is full of Hoon, Hoon, Hoon.

He looks at Jinwoo, wide-eyed with shock. "Not even Zico," he confirms, quietly. His words feel heavy with significance. It scares him.

Jinwoo reaches across the table and slips Minho's hand onto his own. When he speaks, his voice is kind. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hoony's slept with anyone else either, not in a long time."

Minho frowns. "You don't know that."

"No," Jinwoo concedes. "But Yoon lives with him, and he says Hoon hasn't even been out clubbing in ages. Not to mention the only person he ever brings home is, well — you."

Heat rushes to Minho's cheeks. "Maybe he's just too busy to find anyone else," he says. "Maybe that's all that is."

"Maybe," Jinwoo says, though he doesn't sound convinced. "Do you _want_ him to be sleeping with other people?"

_No,_ Minho thinks, immediately. But that's not right, that can't be right.

"I don't know," he says, instead.

Jinwoo hums thoughtfully. He inclines his head at Minho. "Do _you_ want to sleep with other people?"

This question's easier. Minho figured this one out when he realised that he hasn't slept with anyone but Hoon in far longer than makes sense.

"No," he says. "No, I don't."

Jinwoo doesn't look surprised. "Just Hoon, then."

Minho nods. He'd thought the truth would press down on him like a millstone, but instead it feels like something being lifted off his chest.

"Just Hoon," he replies. Just Hoon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about sleeping with Hoon, Minho thinks, is that it's _easy._ They're best friends, after all, and there's a comfortable familiarity between them that smoothes over any of the awkwardness that might have arisen when they'd stepped into unexplored territory. Which means that in between the breathless moans of each other's names, there's also laughter, and playfulness, and the same sort of fond teasing that's always characterised their relationship. In a way, it's exactly how Minho and Hoon have always been, just with the added benefit of orgasms. Minho can't complain.

And he certainly shouldn't be greedy for more.

But he is. He so desperately, painfully is. Sometimes Hoon brushes his hair off his forehead, tucks it behind his ear, and Minho feels a flip in his stomach that he knows has nothing to do with sex. Or he locks gazes with Hoon across a crowded room, and it's all he can do to stop himself from pitching himself over and diving into Hoon's arms for nothing more than a hug.

It's dangerous territory Minho is treading into, but he can't stop himself. Or maybe he doesn't want to. So he just lets himself sink further and further into the quicksand, all the while waiting for a sign — anything — from Hoon. Any sort of hint that Hoon might maybe feel the same way.

He gets it the day he's least expecting it. Things also don't turn out the way he'd have liked, but that comes later. For now, Minho is just holed up in his studio, burying himself in his work in a — mostly futile — attempt to get Hoon out of his head.

But the beats sound cacophonous to his ears, the melodies contrived and discordant. Minho rakes his fingers roughly through his hair, frustration mounting inside him. He feels like he's trying to hold onto a rapidly unwinding ball of yarn, and no matter how hard he tries everything just gets more and more tangled.

A knock on his door startles him. "Who's there?" he asks. It's late enough at night that he wasn't expecting to be disturbed.

"It's me," comes Hoon's voice. Minho's confused — _why is he here?_ — but he calls out for Hoon to come in anyway. Which Hoon does, punching in the code on the keypad — it's Jinwoo's birthday, which Minho had chosen way back when, just to annoy Hoon. Everything comes back to Hoon. Everything always comes back to Hoon.

"What's up?" Minho asks, pushing his chair back from the desk.

Hoon comes to stand next to him, leaning against the side of the table. "It's late," he says, as if that's all that's needed by way of explanation.

"And?"

"And I've come to bring you back home."

Ordinarily, Minho would be delighted to have Hoon come pick him up from the studio. But tonight, he just wants to wallow in his own self-pity until it produces a piece of music that doesn't want to make him rip his own ears out. He rubs a hand across his face. "I'm busy."

"You can be busy tomorrow," Hoon replies. "For now you need to sleep."

Minho turns back to his computer, stares at the zig-zagging soundwaves scattered across the screen. They start to wiggle like worms, and Minho blinks fiercely to dispel the drunk sort of underwater feeling that's fogging up his head. "The music isn't good," he says, looking down. His fingers are resting on the mini-keyboard in front of him. He feels a sudden urge to smash the keys down, to revel in the inevitable dissonance.

Hoon places one hand on top of his. The urge to create chaos dissipates slightly. "It will be," Hoon says. "You just need some rest, and tomorrow you'll make it good."

Minho raises his gaze to look at Hoon. Something feels tight in the back of his chest. "What if I don't?" he asks, and he would be embarrassed to hear how plaintive his voice sounds, except that he's exhausted and too worn out to feel anything other than despair. "What if I never make good music again?"

Hoon bends down, goes on one knee in front of him so their faces are level. He turns Minho's chair to face him, holds both of Minho's hands where they're resting in his lap. "You will," he says, softly. "You're Song Minho."

There's a bubble of something swelling inside Minho, and when he hears his name slip past Hoon's lips — whispered like it's something precious — it bursts.

Hoon's cupping one hand to Minho's cheek, wiping his tears away, before Minho even realises he's crying.

"Hyung," Minho says. A stray tear touches the corner of his lips. Minho can taste his own sadness.

"Minho," Hoon replies. He leans in, and kisses Minho on the lips, so delicately it's barely a ghost of a touch. It's a different kind of kiss to all the ones they've shared before. This one isn't a prelude to something more. It's an expression of something — like fondness, or affection. Or something else that Minho can't bring himself to name, not even just in his head.

Hoon pulls back. His eyes are shining. Minho could drown in then. "Can I stay with you tonight?" Hoon asks.

And, god — Minho wants nothing more than to say yes. What he wants, what he really wants, is for Hoon to hold him his arms and press fluttery kisses against his temples. Ordinarily, he'd settle for sex instead. But not today.

"I don't—" he starts, then stops himself. "I'm not really in the mood—"

But Hoon shakes his head quickly. "No," he says. "Not like that. I just — I don't want you to be alone."

Minho yearns for something he can't have, he yearns so hard it almost hurts. "I'll be fine," is what he says, because if he lets himself have even a taste he'll get addicted.

Minho's never been good at resisting temptation.

Hoon leans closer, thumb brushing against Minho's cheek. "Please," he breathes. "I want to be with you."

So Minho closes his eyes, and lets himself fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are some lines that aren't meant to be crossed. Having sex is one thing — that's simple, in comparison. But sleeping together — just sleeping — is something else. It's lying in each other's arms and kissing lazily until you fall asleep. It's waking up in the middle of the night and drowsily fumbling towards each other's lips again. It's hovering hazily in that dreamlike state where you forget that shadows always look different when illuminated by the unapologetic light of day.

There’s a moment, in the earliest hours of the morning, when Minho remembers stirring to wakefulness. The first thing he’s conscious of is a pair of lips pressing against his cheekbone. He hums, curls into Hoon.

"Sorry — did I wake you?"

Minho mumbles something indistinct, cracks an eye open. The room is still dark. "What time is it?"

"Early," Hoon replies. He strokes the side of Minho's head gently. "Go back to sleep."

"Hmm." Minho yawns. "Why are you awake?"

"Can't sleep."

Minho looks up at Hoon. If he squints, focuses really hard, he can sort of make out the expression on Hoon’s face. It looks — heavy. Weighed down in a way that Hoon usually isn’t. Minho feels sleep slipping away from him as he realises that something’s off. “Are you okay?”

Hoon pulls Minho closer, presses them together in such a way that Minho can no longer see Hoon’s face. “I’m fine,” he says, murmuring into the top of Minho’s head. “Just thinking.”

Anxiety skitters beneath Minho’s skin. He knows what Hoon’s answer will be, and he knows it will be a lie, but still he asks the question. “Everything’s okay, though?”

“Everything’s okay,” Hoon promises. It feels hollow. But he kisses Minho on the top of his head in a way that lets Minho pretend he can't hear the sadness in Hoon's voice. “Go back to sleep, Minho-yah."

Minho doesn’t think he will fall back asleep, but he knows he’s not going to get more out of Hoon, not if he’s refusing to share. So he closes his eyes obligingly, focuses on the slow rise and fall of Hoon’s chest as he breathes. They can talk more in the morning.

When Minho opens his eyes again, the room is bright, and Hoon is gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho doesn't think he's falling in _love,_ per se — but he's definitely falling in something. Something that isn't just about the sex or the fact that Hoon knows just how to touch him to make him see shooting stars behind his eyelids. It's something more about the way Minho yearns for Hoon, how being close to Hoon makes Minho feel safe, how Minho could get drunk on Hoon's smile all day long.

It's cruel, then, that just as he realises this, everything starts to fall apart.

Slowly, at first. Imperceptibly. A text from Hoon saying he's too tired to watch a movie with Minho that night. An uncertain shrug when Minho suggests they hang out. Little things, piling up one on top of the other, each too insignificant to be mentioned.

It takes a couple of weeks for Minho to notice, and then a few days more for him to work up the courage to say anything. He doesn't even really intend to have a confrontation, but he's asking Hoon if he's free that evening and Hoon's making up some inane excuse, and Minho's had enough.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Hoon freezes, midway across the dance studio to leave. "I'm not avoiding you," he says, cautiously.

"Yes, you are," Minho insists. He waits as Hoon turns to face him, slowly. "Don't lie to me, hyung. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," Hoon replies. Minho folds his arms across his chest and frowns at him. Hoon sighs. He removes his baseball cap, shoves his hair back, and puts the cap back on. It's a nervous tic, Minho knows this. Realising that Hoon is nervous puts him on edge as well.

"Have I done something to upset you?"

"No." Hoon is quick to reply. He shakes his head firmly. "No, absolutely not. It's just — it's me."

It's sort of a relief to hear that he hasn't upset Hoon, but still Minho feels his heart clench with anxiety. "What _about_ you?"

"This is all — it's a lot," Hoon says, vaguely. Not really explaining anything. "Do you ever feel like we're moving too fast?"

_Yes,_ Minho thinks. But he doesn't say anything.

Hoon runs his hands over his face. "It just feels — serious, you know?" He grimaces. "Doesn't it feel serious?"

And yeah, Minho gets it. He feels it too, feels it in the way he longs to hold Hoon in his arms and press soft kisses into his temple. Feels it in the way he always gravitates towards Hoon, his eyes instantly searching him out even in the most crowded of rooms. Feels it in the way Hoon's emotions seem to seep right through his skin and into his core.

Like right now. Minho purses his lips together. Fear runs ice cold through his veins.

"Is serious bad?" he asks, quietly. He doesn't know the answer to that question, either.

"I don't know," Hoon replies. "It's just — a lot."

"A lot," Minho repeats. He breathes out slowly. "As in, too much?"

Hoon smiles sadly. "Maybe."

Minho wants to cry. The urge crashes into him without warning, and suddenly his breath comes to him shakily and his chest feels far too tight. He blinks fiercely in an attempt to dispel the tell-tale prickling at the backs of his eyes.

"What are you saying?" he manages to get out, though his voice is trembling. He grits his teeth to try and steady himself.

"Maybe — let's maybe just, I don't know. Take a step back," Hoon says. "Get some space."

"Space," Minho repeats. He nods stoically. He doesn't want to cry in front of Hoon. Because this isn't something worth crying about. It's not that serious.

It's only when he's back in his own room, alone in the darkness and the silence, that the tears start to fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you okay?"

Minho shrugs as Jinwoo drops down to sit next to him on the floor. Their eyes meet in the mirrored wall at the other end of the dance studio. Jinwoo looks nonchalant, but Minho knows him well enough to know that he's concerned.

"I'm fine," Minho replies. "Do I not look fine?"

"Aside from the fact that there's this weird energy around you and Seunghoon?"

Minho scrunches up his face. "There's no weird energy," he says, even though it's a blatant lie. It's been over two weeks since their conversation about 'taking a step back'. Well, they seem to have taken so many steps back that they've returned to 'just friends, no sex' territory. And then kept going until they reached the quagmire of 'too awkward to even be around each other'.

Minho hates it.

Jinwoo nudges him with his shoulder. "Yah," he scolds. "Don't lie to me."

Minho glances at the door to the dance studio. Hoon had insisted on getting snacks, and had dragged their long-suffering leader along to pay. They could return at any moment now. Minho gives Jinwoo a plaintive look. "Are we really talking about this right now?"

"Yes," Jinwoo replies without hesitation. "You guys have barely even made eye contact and we've been practicing for three hours. It's uncomfortable for me and Yoon too."

He's right, and Minho knows it. "Sorry, hyung," he mumbles, looking down at where his hands are resting in his lap.

"Don't be sorry," Jinwoo says. His voice is firm, but kind. "Have you guys still not spoken since — you know?"

Minho sighs, leans his head back against the wall. He'd told Jinwoo about his conversation with Hoon, and promised to update him if anything else happened. Problem is, nothing's happened since then.

"I think we're done," Minho says. It hurts to admit, but he's realised over the past couple days that this is the most likely truth. "I think taking a step back was code for, 'let's end things'."

Jinwoo frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I thought he liked you too."

"Well, he doesn't," Minho says, a little more sharply than Jinwoo deserves. He exhales shakily, hoping Jinwoo will understand that he doesn't mean to be so snappish.

Jinwoo nods. He slips his hand into Minho's. "Maybe he does," he replies. "Maybe he's just scared."

"Maybe," Minho says. He doesn't sound or feel convinced. "I thought he maybe did like me, for a bit," he admits sheepishly. It's embarrassing to think of how wrong he clearly was. "That last night we were together, we didn't even have sex. It was just — cuddling. And kissing. And I really thought that maybe he felt the same way."

Jinwoo leans his head on Minho's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says softly, watching Minho ever so intently on the mirror. "It sucks, and I'm sorry."

"The thing that sucks the most," Minho continues, and it feels like the thoughts are coming to him at the same time the words do, spilling over like water out of an overflowing bath, "is that this isn't just sex for me. It hasn't been for a long time, I don't think."

"No," Jinwoo muses. "I don't think so."

Minho sighs. "I really thought this could be something good."

Jinwoo just stares at him in the mirror, for a long, silent moment. Then he gives Minho's hand a squeeze. "Yeah," he says, and he sounds sad, almost as sad as Minho feels. "Me too."

They just sit there, not saying another word, until the others return. Then it's back to throwing himself into the dance for Minho. Giving it all he's got, until all of his muscles ache so much that he can pretend the pain in his chest has nothing to do heartbreak.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After practice, Minho intentionally takes his time packing up, hoping the other members will leave without him. He doesn't really want to spend any more time with Hoon than strictly necessary — at least until he manages to sort his feelings out and get them under control. So he waves Jinwoo off when their oldest hyung tries to wait for him, stands in front of the mirror taking deep inhales and exhales until he thinks he might be able to face the world again.

He's rounding the corner to the lifts, however, when he hears Hoon's voice. It's slightly raised, but still hushed — like he wants to yell but he knows better than to do it in the company building.

"Will you guys get off my back?" Hoon is saying. "What is the big deal?"

"You don't even like the club they're going to," Yoon replies. He sounds annoyed. "You only want to go because Yerin asked you."

Yerin is one of the dancers in their company. Hoon's slept with her a few times, Minho knows this. He also knows what inevitably happens when Hoon and Yerin go clubbing together.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"You know what's wrong with it," Jinwoo says. His voice is heavy. Minho can hear it coming. He can feel the weight of his own name hanging in the air, knows that he's the reason why Yoon and Jinwoo are upset with Hoon. And he really, really can't bear the thought of them bringing him up to Hoon, only for Hoon to casually remark that he doesn't matter.

So he steps around the corner, as breezily as he can manage, trying to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping on the conversation. Everyone freezes, their heads whipping round to stare at him. It would be comical if it wasn't so upsetting.

"What are you guys arguing about?" Minho asks. He doesn't want to look at Hoon, and he knows if he sees the pity in Jinwoo's eyes he'll break, so he stares stoically ahead and addresses only Yoon.

Their leader clears his throat uncomfortably. "Uh," he starts, haltingly. "We bumped into some of the dancers. They're going clubbing tonight."

Minho nods, and shrugs. "Cool — I have plans so I can't join," he says, even though he absolutely does not have any plans. It's fine. He can make some. He just doesn't want to be invited and have to make up an excuse just so he doesn't have to see Hoon and Yerin getting all handsy with each other on the dancefloor. "Are you guys gonna go?"

"I, um—" Hoon says. He glances at Minho. "I was thinking of going."

Jinwoo gives Hoon a sharp look, before turning to Minho. "Yerin is going to be there," he says, pointedly.

Minho's glad that he already knew this, because he's able to receive the information from Jinwoo with nothing more than a nonchalant nod of his head. "Is she?" he asks coolly. Turns to Hoon. "You should definitely go, then."

Hoon looks surprised, but doesn't say anything. Minho smiles serenely at all of them, then keeps on walking. He walks right past the lifts and takes the stairs instead. Just one foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho does end up making plans for that evening. Partly because he knows Jinwoo thinks he’s lying about having plans, which he resents (even though Jinwoo is right). Partly because he also knows that if he doesn’t leave the dorms, Jinwoo will insist on _talking about it,_ and that’s the last thing Minho wants to do. What Minho does want, is a distraction. For Minho, that distraction takes the form of a handsome face and an easy charm that has always swept him along in its currents.

"I was surprised to get a text from you," Zico says, chuckling as he pours Minho a glass of soju. "I haven't heard from you in ages."

Minho tips the small glass back. It burns in the back of his throat. "Sorry hyung," he says. "I've been busy."

Zico laughs and tops Minho's glass up. "Slow down there, tiger," he warns, as Minho goes to down that glass as well. "We've got plenty of time."

Minho grins sheepishly. "Thanks for coming to dinner with me last minute."

"Anything for my favourite dongsaeng," Zico replies. He winks at Minho, and even after all this time, even after Hoon, it still sends a thrill of anticipation fluttering through Minho. There's just something magnetic about Zico, there always has been.

But Zico is also one of his best friends, one of the people who can see right through him. So Minho isn't surprised when his face falls serious, and he tilts his head at Minho questioningly. "Is everything okay, though? Why the sudden dinner invitation?"

Minho shrugs. He's not sure how much to say, or where to start. "To be honest," he says, "I was feeling a little down. And being with you always cheers me up."

This is the truth. It is also the truth that Minho had not gone for dinner with Zico with any intention of having sex with him. But here are some other things that are also true: All Minho wants, more even than he wants Hoon, is to be loved. And Zico loves Minho very much, just not in the way Minho craves.

Zico smiles at him, warmly but in that enigmatic way that has always left Minho guessing. It’s easy to fall into the pull of Zico’s gravity, and it’s familiar and comforting in a way that Minho knows will at least make him feel better even if it doesn’t make him feel completely whole again. Only time can do that, he thinks. But while he waits, he can at least wait while wrapped up in the arms of someone with whom he had first learnt to explore the rhythms of his body.

One final truth: Minho is not good at distinguishing one kind of love from another.

So he leans into Zico when Zico places a hand on his thigh, and he tips his head into Zico’s shoulder when he laughs, and when Zico murmurs, “do you want to come home with me?” into his ear, he responds by tilting his head and kissing Zico, open-mouthed and hungry.

Some bad decisions don't look like bad decisions at the time. Sometimes they come disguised as comfort, and they work, for a little while. Until they don’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho checks his phone on his way home the following morning. A couple of texts from Jinwoo, in response to his vague 'don't wait up for me' message. Nothing from Hoon, of course. But Minho checks Yerin's Instagram story, and sees a blurry video of Hoon and some of the other dancers and idols in the company, laughing and dancing in a strobe-lit club. He sighs and closes out of the video, scrolls through the rest of his feed. Stops when he sees a picture of himself and Zico, from last night.

He vaguely remembers them taking the photo, vaguely recalls Zico asking if it was okay for him to upload. Now that he's no longer tipsy, Minho isn't sure it was the best idea for him to tell Zico to go ahead and post it. But it's probably fine — they don't look very drunk, so the company won't mind. Even if Minho has his cheek all pressed up against Zico's in a remarkably intimate way. The caption just reads _'dinner with my favourite dongsaeng',_ followed by a black heart emoji. Minho smiles to himself, replies with a thumbs up. It feels nice, he thinks, to know that someone out there still wants him. Even if it's not the person he wants, and it's not in the way he wants. It's small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

By the time he gets home, it's still fairly early in the morning, and they don't have any schedules all day. So when Minho pushes open the door to the dorms, he's fully expecting to be met with silence. And, in a way, he is. Except that it's not the silence of Jinwoo being asleep, or quietly watching dramas in his room. It's the silence that falls when you come across a group of people who were just talking about you.

"Uh," Minho says. The door thuds shut behind him dully. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at him. "What is everyone doing here?"

"Nothing," says Hoon, quickly. He shoots Yoon a look that clearly says 'shut up'. Yoon looks disgruntled, but lets Hoon continue. Which he does, getting to his feet and heading past Minho towards the front door. "We were just leaving."

"Seunghoon hyung," Yoon says, frowning. But Hoon pays him no heed, and Yoon scrunches up his face in frustration before following Hoon and disappearing down the corridor. The door thuds shut again.

Minho levels Jinwoo with a suspicious gaze. "What the hell was that?"

To his credit, Jinwoo looks genuinely confused. "They came down, saying that Hoon wanted to talk to you," Jinwoo explains. "I told them you weren't in."

"What did he want to talk to me about?"

"Don't know." Jinwoo's phone is lying on the table, and he fiddles with it self-consciously. He worries at his bottom lip with his front teeth. "I only knew you'd gone out for dinner with a friend. I didn't know who."

Minho sits down at the dining table across from Jinwoo. Dread floods his system, even though there's no reason for it to. He hasn't done anything wrong.

"We checked Instagram," Jinwoo says, quietly.

Minho breathes out slowly. "I'm allowed to hang out with Zico."

"Of course you are," Jinwoo replies. "It's just — I don't know. Hoon was kind of upset about it."

"Why? He has no right to be upset." His voice comes out a little snappish, which he immediately regrets when he sees Jinwoo recoil.

"Don't get mad at me," Jinwoo says. "I don't know either, because that's when you came home, and then he left."

Minho wants to say that he doesn't care, that if Hoon wants to be upset about something, that's not his problem. But there's something gnawing at his chest, hot and sharp. Something that feels a lot like guilt.

He looks at Jinwoo. "Hyung," he starts, then trails off. Because he doesn't know how to continue. Doesn't even know what he's worried about, or why he feels so achey all of a sudden. He huffs out a breath of frustration.

"It's okay," Jinwoo says soothingly. "Don't stress about something when you don't even know what it is."

Minho presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

Jinwoo reaches over, gently tugs his hands away from his face. Laces their fingers together. "Hey, look at me," he murmurs. When Minho raises his eyes to meet his gaze, Jinwoo smiles. "How was dinner with Zico? Did you have a nice time?"

Minho nods. "I did," he replies. And that's true, he had left Zico's flat feeling immeasurably lighter. But maybe that had just been a case of papering over the cracks. Zico isn't going to fix him, and, if if he's being perfectly honest with himself, neither is Hoon. He smiles wryly at Jinwoo. There's no shortcut, no easy way out.

"I just need time," he says. "Just need some time."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a few weeks. Weeks in which Minho barely sees Hoon, aside from the odd dance practice here and there — they're thankfully on a break between promotions, which means more time to breathe. He has to work on a lot of music, of course, but compared with the hectic, never-ending schedules of promotion periods, it feels like an absolute dream.

He ends up hanging out with Zico a lot, simply because he'd forgotten how much he does like spending time with Zico. But — and Jinwoo's very impressed with him when Minho shares this fact — they don't have sex any more. Sleeping with Zico makes Minho feel only temporarily better, and then the high wears off and he's back to being miserable.

So, instead, he talks. And Zico listens. It's like talking to Jinwoo, except even better, because Zico isn't close to Hoon, and so Minho isn't afraid of spilling all the details. He tells Zico about how much he likes Hoon, how shitty it had felt when Hoon had abruptly extricated himself from his life, and how ashamed he feels for still wanting Hoon back.

For his part, Zico is a better listener than Minho had ever realised. He holds Minho's hand and nods and asks all the right questions, and then he levels Minho with all the brutal honesty that Minho needs to hear.

"Maybe you're right, and he wanted to end things with you," Zico says. "But maybe not. You haven't even told him that you like him. How is he supposed to know?"

Minho doesn't think there's any point telling Hoon. Not at this stage, when Hoon's made it perfectly clear that they're done. It still feels shitty, of course, but as time passes he does feel lighter, and happier, and more at peace with himself. And being in the same room as Hoon no longer makes him want to set himself on fire, which he supposes can only count as an improvement.

He's starting to think that maybe he's ready to close the book on this chapter of his life, and start afresh, when things blow up. In a big way.

They're at dance practice, just the four of them, and having a short break to catch their breaths. Minho's sitting on the floor, talking to Yoon. Jinwoo is slowly running through one of the moves by himself, eyes fixed intently on his reflection in the mirror. Hoon is standing by laptop, playing bits of the song on repeat as he works out some of the kinks in the choreography.

Then Minho's phone rings. It's on vibrate mode, but it still makes a loud noise against the table that it's on, right next to the laptop. Hoon picks it up to hand to Minho, glancing at the screen as he does so.

It's Zico. Minho's heart flips when he realises that Hoon would have seen the name, and the silly selca Minho's picked as Zico's contact picture. Not that it should matter, of course. He and Hoon are just friends, as are he and Zico.

But still, Minho has to school his expression and voice into neutrality as he picks up the call. Zico asks something about dinner that weekend, but Minho's so flustered that he can barely even keep up with the conversation.

"I'm in the middle of practice, hyung," he says, finally, after stumbling over himself to try and sort out when exactly Zico wants to have dinner. "Can I call you back?"

When he puts the phone down, everyone is looking at him. Minho swallows in discomfort. "What?"

Hoon shrugs. He turns away, but keeps his eyes trained on Minho via their reflections in the mirror. "So are you and Zico like, _going out_ or something, then?"

Minho blinks in surprise. "That's — I don't think that's any of your business."

Jinwoo winces. "Minho," he starts, but Hoon cuts him off.

"Can't I just ask as a friend?" Hoon replies. He sounds quite on edge. "Or are we not even friends anymore?"

Minho pushes himself to standing. Next to him, Yoon scrambles to do the same.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything."

But Minho is sick and tired of Hoon doing this — bottling things up and refusing to talk about anything. He walks around to stand in front of Hoon, glares up at him with newfound ferocity. Or perhaps it's a very old ferocity that Minho had been keeping buried deep down inside of him as well. Maybe they're both at fault. Whatever it is — Minho's tired of it.

"You're the one who ended things," he says, sharply. "You're the one who wanted to _take a step back."_ He spits Hoon's words back at him like venom.

"I didn't _—_ I just—" Hoon starts and stops, his words coming out in a frustrated, staccato rhythm. He exhales slowly. "I know I fucked up, okay? But it's hard to see you with Zico now."

Minho scoffs. "This has nothing to do with Zico."

This seems to upset Hoon, who narrows his eyes at Minho. "This has everything to do with Zico," he snaps back. "That day — the day Zico posted the picture of the two of you. Don't you dare say you didn't sleep with him then."

"Seunghoon hyung," Yoon says sharply.

Minho and Hoon both ignore him. "So what if I did?" Minho asks, fiercely. "What, you can sleep with Yerin and I can't sleep with Zico?"

Now it's Jinwoo's turn to step forward. "Minho," he says, the warning evident in his tone. "Don't."

"I didn't," Hoon says, and for a split second Minho is confused, thinks Hoon is responding to Jinwoo. Then he realises Hoon is talking to him. He blinks dumbly up at Hoon.

"What?"

Hoon looks pained. "Yerin," he repeats. "I didn't sleep with her."

Minho blinks again. "What?" he repeats. Somewhere behind him, he faintly registers the sound of Jinwoo inhaling sharply in surprise.

"I didn't sleep with Yerin, okay?" Hoon runs his hands through his hair in frustration. "That night — I was going to, and then I realised. I couldn't."

Minho is rooted to the spot. "What?" He's said that quite a few times now, but his brain feels like it's on the fritz. It's too much effort to produce anything more than mono-syllabic words. "Why?"

"Because!" Hoon cries out, like he's exasperated with Minho for not understanding, but he's not explaining anything. "I went to tell you, the next morning, but you'd stayed over at Zico's, and I—" Hoon breaks off mid-sentence, and rubs at his face roughly. It's only then that Minho realises Hoon is crying. Hoon doesn't cry often. The sight chills Minho to his bones.

"But you — you're the one who broke things off with me," Minho mutters.

"I know," Hoon says, despondently. "I was scared, and I fucked up."

Minho makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. None of this makes sense. None of it. But he can sense the pain radiating off Hoon, and it hurts him too. He glances round at Jinwoo and Yoon. They both look shell-shocked as well. Minho steps backwards, away from Hoon.

Hoon looks pleadingly at him. "Minho-yah," he says. "I'm sorry."

Minho shakes his head. His heart is pounding against his ribs. He's somehow on the verge of tears, except that he has no tears left to cry. His breathing is shallow, and he feels light-headed.

"No," he replies. His voice sounds hollow. "That's not good enough."

And then he turns, yanks open the door, and leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho groans when he hears a knock on his bedroom door. He doesn’t move from where he’s lying, face down, on his bed, face buried in the pillow. “For the last time, hyung,” he calls out, “I’m not hungry!”

He hears the door click open anyway, and Minho exhales sharply in frustration as he sits up. “Jinwoo hyung, I told you—” But the words die in his throat.

It’s not Jinwoo, standing in his doorway. It’s Hoon.

“What do you want?” His voice comes across a little aggressive, but that’s really just an accurate reflection of how Minho’s feeling towards Hoon right now, so he isn’t too bothered.

Hoon closes the door behind him, leans on it awkwardly with his hands behind his back. Minho tries not to focus on the fact that his eyes are rimmed with red. Or the fact that his hair is a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it non-stop for the last few hours.

“I, um — I wanted to talk to you.”

Minho swallows tightly. "About what?"

Despite everything, seeing Hoon standing in front of him, looking so worn out and emotionally drained — it still makes Minho's gut twist with affection. He clenches his fists in the sheets to stop himself from reaching out and dragging Hoon into a hug. As it turns out, anger doesn't make love go away.

"About how I've been an idiot," Hoon replies. "And an asshole, and a coward. And I'm really sorry."

"What are you apologising for?" Minho asks. Exhaustion fills his bones. "Because if it's for breaking my heart, don't bother — as much as I wish I could blame you for it, that's all on me for falling for you."

Hoon looks like he might start crying again, but he shakes his head firmly and replies, "I'm sorry for not having the guts to tell you what I should have told you a long time ago."

"And what is that?"

"That I like you," Hoon says. He meets Minho's gaze steadily. "I have feelings for you, and not just sex feelings — I have I wanna hold your hand and go on dates with you and kiss you when you cry, those kinds of feelings."

Minho blinks at Hoon. "What?"

“If you’re going out with Zico, I don’t want to get in the way,” Hoon adds, looking down. "But I wanted you to know. I should have told you, before."

"I'm not going out with Zico," Minho says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He never in his wildest dreams would have expected to be having this conversation with Hoon.

"Oh," Hoon says.

"But you ended things with me," Minho continues, abruptly, cutting off whatever Hoon might have been about to say. "You said you wanted to _take a step back!"_ He keeps saying those words, but it’s not his fault that they’re burned into his brain.

Hoon screws up his face. "Yeah," he says. "I fucked up. I realised just how much I liked you, and I just— I don't know. Panicked."

"Panicked," Minho repeats. All these weeks of agony, because Hoon's fight or flight instinct had apparently kicked in. He shoots Hoon a half-hearted glare. "You're an idiot."

Hoon forces a pained grin and shrugs. "Yes, that's fair."

"I like you too, hyung," Minho says. "I've liked you for quite some time."

"Yeah?" Hoon asks. He sounds faintly hopeful.

"Yes," Minho replies.

They stare at each other silently for a long moment.

"Now what?" Minho asks. "Why are you here?"

Hoon digs his teeth into his lower lip. "Do you want to, maybe — try this again?" he asks. Minho isn’t used to how uncertain he sounds, when Hoon is usually the most brashly confident of them all. A pink flush dusts his cheeks. "No stupid games. Just you and me. For real."

A small part of Minho tells him that maybe it shouldn’t be this easy. That maybe the right thing to do with someone who’s hurt him before, is to close his heart off forever.

But this isn’t just anyone. This is Hoon, _his Hoon._ When it comes to Hoon, Minho suspects that his heart will always be open.

So he smiles, and stands up slowly. Takes a step towards Hoon. "Yeah," he says. He breathes out evenly. "Okay."

And then he leans forward, presses his lips into Hoon’s. He hears the sigh of relief, or pleasure — or both — that escapes Hoon. It fills him with a warm sense of belonging. Like he’s finally come home. He curls his arms around Hoon’s neck, pulling him closer, and Hoon finally relaxes into the kiss. He slides his arms around Minho’s waist.

There are some lines that we tell ourselves aren't meant to be crossed. Because whatever lies beyond is too unknown, and therefore, too scary. But the only lines that exist are the ones that we impose on ourselves. The lines between us are, in the end, just drawn in the sand.

All it takes, as it turns out, to take that step into uncharted territory — is just a little bit of courage.

(But, in case you need it, here are some other things that help: A cold winter's night, and a broken boiler. An open heart. And someone worth opening your heart to.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is SO LONG and I'm not even sure why... I set out to write the minhoon friends with benefits fic I've always wanted and somehow it turned into this. thank you E for reading it over and helping me fix it when I was having my crisis of confidence. hope everyone liked it! please leave kudos/comments :)
> 
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